


kiss some truth into my mouth

by glueskin



Series: open heart, open hand (this is how i want to love you) [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (Thanks Ishgard), Hospital Bed Confessions, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Non-fatal injuries, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, References to past trauma, Sign Language, Specifically: Estinien's Childhood Trauma, Weird Coping Methods, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/pseuds/glueskin
Summary: after a skirmish gone awry, aymeric is temporarily confined to bed rest. estinien, as always, does not take the injuries of someone he cares for very well.it leads to one of his unfortunate methods of coping being discovered and a long overdue conversation.(can be read as a stand alone piece.)





	kiss some truth into my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> so this takes place years after the scene i expanded on in _together, of the aching kind_ , but it can be read entirely on its own as well. estinien and aymeric are like. 28-29 here and theyve both been shit idiots and pining for like, six years. the real reason haurchefant has grey hair because he had to watch this happen.
> 
> a note: the ptsd tag is because estiniens selective mutism and whatnot are a direct result of his childhood trauma. seeing your family die has a way of fucking you up yknow? he doesnt have an actual flashback or panic attack in this but the fact he _has_ had them is referenced.
> 
> anyway shoutout to my bro izzy for asking me to write about estinien losing his mind over aymeric getting injured and then not minding when it turned into this sappy mess. sorry i keep getting aymeric put in the infirmary...first the concussion and now this...wow...

Rage is a familiar friend to Estinien. It comes hand in hand with the burning desire for revenge that has festered within him for nigh on two decades—but not like this. It hasn’t felt like this in so long.  
  
This isn’t the same type of rage that has simmered for so many years. It’s new, overwhelming in its ferocity, and only a lifetime of tempering himself keeps Estinien’s hands from shaking now that he’s back within Ishgard’s walls.  
  
He sees the red staining Aymeric’s blue tabard every time he closes his eyes. That same red had taken over the edges of his vision as Estinien leapt after the thrice-damned heretic whose blade had gotten too close, spear impaling the man far more easily than it would any dragon.  
  
_He’s fine_ , Estinien tells himself, but he remains unconvinced even as he grips the outward jutting stone along the Congregation’s outer walls. He remains outside of the window that leads to the infirmary for a moment, waiting out of sight and listening for any activity.  
  
The room is quiet. He peers through the glass and sees none of the medical staff—slowly, he eases the outside latch of the window, and carefully shimmies it upward. A buildup of snow against the frame comes tumbling down and he shakes it out of his hair as he hikes his leg up over the ledge.  
  
Aymeric is asleep. In the rooms only actual bed, not the cot he usually insists on taking when forced to endure the attentions of the chirurgeons, which means the injury isn’t light.  
  
Of course it’s not. Estinien feels nauseated with fury, hands aching with the desire to hurt even though the bastard is already dead.  
  
Men are so much easier to kill than monsters.  
  
Sucking in a breath, Estinien closes the window behind him with the same level of care he’d opened it with. It closes with hardly a sound.  
  
He hovers, unsure, near Aymeric’s bedside. The man looks so much more relaxed in sleep, despite discomfort his injury must bring—his brow less furrowed, his mouth lax, his inky hair spread out against the off-grey of his pillow.  
  
Like he has many times before, Estinien brings his knee up to the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight and Aymeric shifts but doesn’t wake, even as Estinien bows his head close to his chest.  
  
He listens as well as he can without outright placing his head on Aymeric’s chest. His breathing slows to match the pace of the faint heartbeat he hears and his fingers twist in the stiff fabric of the bedding.  
  
_Alive_ , Estinien thinks, relief welling within him. Alive.  
  
Unbidden, the memory of the first time he had done this rises to his mind—Aymeric had been so terrifyingly still in his cot that even though the chirurgeons had said he would be fine, Estinien had needed to be _sure_.  
  
The fear he had felt then is vivid in his mind. He had been so scared that he’d been angry, wondering if the one person he had finally decided to let in was going to leave him just like everyone else had.  
  
He’d climbed onto Aymeric’s cot then, too. He needed to be absolutely certain. To press his ear to Aymeric’s torso the way he had the bodies of his parents, his brother, and be sure that his heart still beat in his chest. And then Aymeric had awoken, looking up at Estinien with glazed eyes, slurring some nonsense about being guided to Halone’s halls by one of Her angels.  
  
Him! An Angel of Halone! What a laugh. But sleep-addled and concussed, Aymeric’s words were honest, and Estinien had been so red when Alberic arrived to try and bring him home that the man had thought he’d been feverish with infection.  
  
Even if he can keep his face from burning now, his chest still floods with embarrassed warmth at the memory.  
  
He should go. Estinien is about to pull away and leave as quietly as he came, but—  
  
“Est...inien?” A low, sleepy voice mutters below him, and Estinien freezes.  
  
A hand reaches to his shoulder, grabbing for the woolen fabric of his tunic.  
  
He should say something, Estinien knows. An apology, perhaps, for overstepping in Aymeric's personal boundaries like this. But the words stick in his throat, heart beating fast in his chest.  
  
“Such a blessed dream,” Aymeric murmurs, voice hoarse with sleep. When Estinien chances a look at him, his eyes are half-lidded, vivid and blue in the dark.  
  
He has half a mind to let Aymeric think that he’s dreaming, he really does, if only to spare himself the humiliation of being caught like this.  
  
He does, in fact open his mouth to speak—but his words fail him in a way they haven’t in many years. Aymeric’s hand wanders beyond his shoulder, tangling in his hair and drawing him close.  
  
_What_ , Estinien thinks, something not unlike fear shivering across his skin as Aymeric tucks Estinien against him, nosing at his hair with a soft, tired noise.  
  
Estinien almost shakes. If he were a weaker man, he might have, especially when he feels Aymeric’s mouth pressing against the crown of his head.  
  
“Ay,” he tries to say, muffled into Aymeric’s warm neck, but the man’s name dies on his tongue. Will he let go, when he knows this isn’t a dream?  
  
Selfishly, Estinien wants to let him keep thinking that this is all it is. A dream. But Aymeric is his closest—his only—friend, who he cares for far too much.  
  
“Aymeric,” he tries again, desperately trying not to burn up at the feeling of his mouth against Aymeric’s skin.  
  
“Mm,” is the only response he gets, muffled into his hair, and Estinien _aches_. Not with the bitter anger that so often fills the gaping hole in his chest but with something else.  
  
He can’t speak. He can’t, so he pulls himself out of Aymeric’s loose embrace. The way the other man blinks up at him, eyes still hazy with sleep, twists something in Estinien’s gut.  
  
He opens his mouth to try and speak again, but he can’t. His body won’t let him, and he hates it, snarling to himself—the sound startles Aymeric into more awareness, forcing him to sit up and wincing in pain as he does so.  
  
“Oh, Twelve preserve,” Aymeric breathes, a wholly unfamiliar expression crossing his face. Estinien has never seen Aymeric, of all people, look _ashamed_. But that’s how he looks as he draws his arm away from Estinien—guilty and ashamed, despite the fact Estinien was the one who infringed on his personal space so terribly.  
  
“I am -  _so_ sorry,” Aymeric says, covering his face with his hand. “I. I have no excuse. Pray forgive my actions.”  
  
Estinien is at a loss.  
  
“There…” is all he can say, throat closing in on itself. Aymeric lowers his hand to gaze at him, red-faced in a way Estinien usually only sees when Lucia is outdrinking them both.  
  
_“There is nothing to forgive,”_   he signs instead of speaking. _“I was the one who let myself in and,”_   his hands halt, guilt stopping him from saying anymore.  
  
Most people don’t show their concern by sneaking into people’s rooms and climbing on top of them. Probably. Aymeric has forgiven much of his strange behavior over the years, but this may be too much.  
  
“You…” Aymeric trails off, glancing from Estinien’s hands to his face as realization creeps into his expression. “Estinien. What were you doing?”  
  
_“Nothing untoward,”_   Estinien signs frantically at Aymeric’s tone, _“I was checking your breathing. Your pulse. That is all!”_  
  
The back of his neck burns with humiliation. Aymeric’s brows lift in surprise.  
  
“Wait,” Aymeric says slowly. “Have you done this before?”  
  
Estinien doesn’t meet his gaze. He can’t bring himself to admit that he’s done so every time he’s been in Ishgard at the same time as Aymeric experiencing any injury that leaves him confined to bed for even a night.  
  
“Estinien,” Aymeric says quietly, reaching for his shoulder. He stiffens in a way he hasn’t at Aymeric’s touch in many years, not looking up, and so Aymeric jerks his hand back. “I...am only surprised. Not upset, I assure you. I know why you would want to do such a thing.”  
  
The understanding in Aymeric’s voice hurts. He should feel relieved, but he doesn’t, and Estinien’s next inhale is a ragged thing.  
  
“I should not have grabbed you,” Aymeric goes on. “I know you...dislike such things. My half-asleep state is no excuse.”  
  
Estinien shakes his head, opens his mouth, closes it, and lifts his head again. He thinks about it—how Aymeric had called him a _blessed dream_ , the way he had held him so closely, and—that moment, years ago.  
  
Maybe. Maybe, somehow, impossibly, it isn’t just him.  
  
_“What were you dreaming about?”_   He signs before he can stop himself. Aymeric’s guilt makes itself present on his face once more.  
  
“That is...oh, mercy, my friend. Do not have me say this,” Aymeric’s expression twists into something like grief, making Estinien’s blood go cold.  
  
Estinien stares, wide-eyed and wondering. What sort of secret could Aymeric have, that he would not tell _Estinien?_  
  
Aymeric looks away from him, scrubbing a hand over his face once more.  
  
“I...If you flee from me after this, I will not fault you. You,” Aymeric halts, and Estinien waits, a less familiar kind of fear inside of him.  
  
“You know that I care for you,” Aymeric says, his voice going quieter. Estinien, not trusting himself to do anything else, jerks his head in a nod of acknowledgement. He knows—and Aymeric knows that Estinien cares for him, too.  
  
He simply doesn’t know _how much_ Estinien cares.  
  
“In truth, I care for you far more than I can say,” Aymeric practically whispers, voice taking on an uneven edge. He doesn’t meet Estinien’s gaze. “That is...in a manner which a man should not easily confess, lest his reputation be ruined.”  
  
As if Estinien has a reputation to maintain. Ishgard will let him do as he pleases so long as he continues to live his life in order to die for their cause as the Azure Dragoon—but Aymeric is different. Aymeric has ambition not for himself, but for his people, and he cannot change things if he is ousted from his newly-obtained position for laying with men.  
  
Dizzyingly, Estinien realizes the selfishness of his question. But Aymeric must know that, even if Estinien had not been looking at him with veiled longing for years now, he would never breathe a word of it to others. He _wouldn’t_.  
  
But he is also aware that knowing something logically is different from really _knowing_ , so he can’t be hurt by that implied lack of trust. Estinien wets his dry mouth, throat aching. He doesn’t lift his hands to sign, but raises one to tentatively grab at Aymeric’s shoulder.  
  
The guilty shame and the vaguest hint of fear in the other man’s gaze hurts more than anything else. More than the years Estinien has spent feeling resigned to loving from a distance, terrified not only of rejection but of his own potential to harm.  
  
He doesn’t know how to say the words. So he doesn’t—he grips Aymeric’s shoulder a bit tighter, shuffling closer, and Aymeric’s expression becomes more confused than anything else.  
  
Quickly, and perhaps more clumsily than any man nearing thirty summers has any right to be, Estinien presses his mouth to the corner of Aymeric’s. He pulls away almost immediately, embarrassed, and wishes he had his helm. It would be easier, then, to hide the heat rising in his cheeks.  
  
Aymeric’s eyes are wide, his expression stunned. For a moment Estinien wonders if he had misjudged—if he had somehow, someway, misunderstood what Aymeric had said, despite the heavy implications, which are things he has never been good at reading into.  
  
“I,” he tries to say, throat tightening in on itself. He knows it isn’t, not really, but it feels like it is—like he’s being strangled with each word he tries to speak. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time.  
  
Estinien forces it anyway. “I feel the same,” he says, slowly, each word taking monumental effort to wrench out of himself. He hopes he understood correctly—that he hasn’t ruined the one good thing he has in this miserable life.  
  
Then relief seems to fill Aymeric’s expression, his tense posture easing beneath Estinien’s hand.  
  
“I never thought,” Aymeric starts, then stops, reaching his hand to touch Estinien’s wrist—he doesn’t push his hand away, just grasps his wrist loosely. “I had wondered, after a time, if maybe your interests were not...entirely different from mine. But…” he trails off, hopeful disbelief clear in his voice.  
  
“ _I_ never thought,” Estinien echoes, voice getting rougher with the effort it takes for him to speak. His fingers dig into Aymeric’s shoulder instinctively, but he immediately eases his grip when a flicker of discomfort crosses Aymeric’s face.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to tug his hand away, but Aymeric tightens his grip on his wrist and smiles.  
  
“Do not be sorry. Talk to me—with your hands, if not your voice,” he says quietly, and Estinien swallows.  
  
“I was fine just...going as we were,” Estinien admits with difficulty, wanting this to be said aloud. “The thought of someone like you, looking at someone such as me in that way...feeling as I did...was impossible.”  
  
“And yet it is not so,” Aymeric says, letting go of his wrist to reach for his face. His fingers brush against Estinien’s jaw, tentative. “Given that I have selfishly wished for more between us for longer than I can bear to admit.”  
  
“How long?” Estinien asks. He needs to know. Have they both been foolishly blind to one another since the beginning?  
  
Aymeric’s palm touches his cheek, fingers curling slightly by his ear. His smile is an awkward thing, the kind of smile Estinien hasn’t seen on him in a long, long time.  
  
“Probably since before we really spoke,” he confesses, leaning close. “I saw you using sign, so I asked Haurchefant to teach me—his mother and aunt, you see...well, that is not my story to tell. But he taught me because I wanted to be able to know you. And then...after our patrol, I knew. I knew friendship wasn’t the only thing I wanted.”  
  
Oh, Gods.  
  
A hoarse, disbelieving laugh tears itself out of him.  
  
“Me too,” he rasps, leaning into Aymeric’s touch, sliding his hand from his shoulder towards his nape. “From the beginning—you were so godsdamned _annoying_ , just like the rest, but then you spoke to me the only way I could back then. You tried. You were the only—” his throat tightens, not from the strange trauma that steals away his voice so often, but from the effort it takes to not embarrass himself further with tears.  
  
“You were the only one,” he finishes. The only one to try, aside from Alberic, who had learned sign and taught Estinien, which had been a painstaking process. But nobody else had looked at him and wanted to put the effort in, and Estinien had thought that was enough. He needed no one else—only himself, his lance, and Alberic.  
  
It _had_ been enough, until Aymeric began coming to him every day. With his infuriating smile, the way his hair curled prettily at his cheeks, his low voice greeting Estinien at every opportunity. He had hated it, but then Aymeric had beaten him in a spar, and he had thought _maybe he’s not so bad_. And then he had begun using sign, and Estinien did what he had promised himself to never do: he had grown attached.  
  
Aymeric’s laughs, too, at the absurdity of it—but then he winces, hand faltering away from Estinien’s face to drop to his stomach.  
  
The angry guilt comes back.  
  
“I should never have let that happen,” he says, and Aymeric shakes his head.  
  
“It was my own fault, not yours. You cannot watch my back at all times—you were quite busy, as I recall. I should have paid more attention.” Seeing the displeasure on Estinien’s face, Aymeric sighs and adds, “You killed him, did you not? So there is nothing else to be done. The Astrologian’s repaired the worst of the internal damage, and the chirugeons have assured me that I will make a full recovery. Do not fret, my dear.”  
  
Estinien opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and something must show on his face because Aymeric begins to smile—one of his dangerous ones, which says he’s learned something that he’s going to hold over Estinien forever.  
  
“You are blushing, _dear_ ,” he says, putting emphasis on the endearment, and Estinien sputters.  
  
“I - I am _not_. I am a grown man, such terminology is - is -” he hates the way his voice stutters, betraying him. He thought himself grown out of that aspect of his issues, but it seems not.  
  
The last time anyone had called him _dear_ he had been a child and the connotation much different. But Aymeric said it so easily, as if there was no thought to it.  
  
Aymeric laughs again, quieter and more restrained than before so as not to irritate his gut. He reaches back out to touch the length of Estinien’s hair where it’s slipped over his shoulder.  
  
“Let me tell you a secret,” Aymeric says as he shifts closer to him. “When we first met for joint training...you trounced me thoroughly. I remember looking up at you, winded from being pinned on my back, and I felt your lance at my throat—and I saw you with your hair shining so white above me. I thought you were beautiful, then. I should have known from that moment how lost I was.”  
  
Estinien thinks he must be dying—his face is burning in a way he can scarcely remember experiencing before, chest hurting in a way that feels reminiscent of—yet also wildly different from—the attacks he used to feel as a child.  
  
But it doesn’t instill him with suffocating panic—only a burning sense of something he thinks might be humiliation, for it’s too strong to be simple embarrassment.  
  
“Cute,” Aymeric murmurs, and Estinien shakes his head wildly.  
  
“I’m not,” he says, and, “Not...either of those things. Not like you.” That’s all he can bring himself to say—there’s no way he can confess he’d noted Aymeric’s physical appeal even before they had interacted, eyes drawn to the dark of his hair, the vivid color of his eyes, the confidence of his posture.  
  
“You are blind to yourself,” Aymeric refutes, touching his cheek again. He leans closer still, and Estinien feels—he feels too much, fit to burst, and Aymeric is so close Estinien can feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek.  
  
“May I?” He asks, and all Estinien can do is nod. He’s been here too long—surely someone will come soon, one of the staff to check on Aymeric or even Lucia to make sure he’s alright, but if Aymeric is unconcerned then he puts those thoughts out of his mind.  
  
He can’t think about anything, anyway, once Aymeric’s mouth is on his. Unlike his clumsy attempt at a kiss, Aymeric manages it properly—he uses his hand on Estinien’s cheek to angle his head, and Estinien lets himself be moved as Aymeric slots their mouths together warmly.  
  
Aymeric’s eyes dip shut, but Estinien’s remain wide open, terrified that he may wake up from this. He's only kissed one other, and it was so long ago and so very different from Aymeric, whose mouth is soft instead of dry and rough—he just slides his fingers from Estinien’s cheek to his hair, pressing himself somehow closer still as he kisses him, mouth closed.  
  
It takes a moment for him to realize he’s allowed to return that soft pressure. When he does, the soft noise Aymeric makes has him feeling as though his hands are shaking as he lifts them to Aymeric’s shoulders.  
  
Only then, when Estinien is touching him and leaning into his kiss, does Aymeric allow the faintest touch of his tongue, and Estinien welcomes it with no small amount of enthusiasm.  
  
Aymeric may taste distantly of the bitter medical concoctions he had undoubtedly been forced to drink earlier, but Estinien doesn’t care. Aymeric kisses him so warmly and so deeply that all Estinien can do is cling to him and try to breathe, returning the motions with blatant inexperience.  
  
He’s grateful that Aymeric doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he simply doesn’t care—he tangles his hand further in Estinien’s hair and lifts his other to his face, fingers curling at his jaw and thumb stroking Estinien’s cheek.  
  
By the time Aymeric stops and pulls away, Estinien is more red-faced than he’s ever been in his life, breathless and dazed.  
  
“Look at you,” Aymeric sighs with a wonder Estinien doesn’t understand, thumb still gently rubbing at his skin. “I could do this for hours.”  
  
The thought is almost enough to make Estinien shiver. Hours, with Aymeric’s mouth on his, Aymeric’s hands on his skin.  
  
“Another time,” Estinien manages to rasp out, gaze flickering down to Aymeric’s stomach. Even covered by the thin sleep wear, Estinien knows exactly where he’d been injured. He wants, desperately, to reach out and touch him there, but the fear of somehow causing more hurt stops him.  
  
Aymeric’s smile is soft. Estinien wants to kiss him again, but he holds back.  
  
“Yes, another time. When I am not so injured and we have more privacy,” he agrees, and Estinien feels almost faint at the thought. More privacy than this infirmary, where they can do this without any underlying concern over being seen.  
  
He wonders how Aymeric will kiss him, then. What he’ll do to him, and then he shuts down that train of thought before he can let it go any further.  
  
“I should,” Estinien tries to say, then falters not even wanting to let go of Aymeric’s shoulders, let alone leave.  
  
But Aymeric understands, lowering his hand from his cheek and disentangling the other from Estinien’s hair.  
  
“You should. I believe Lucia has been standing vigil outside the door since before I fell asleep—hence the lack of interruption.”  
  
“ _What_ ,” Estinien hisses, glancing frantically towards the still-closed door. Aymeric’s answering chuckle is familiarly warm and amused.  
  
“If she heard anything, you can be assured she will not speak of it.”  
  
She wouldn’t, he knows. Aymeric trusts her and so Estinien does, even if she makes him uneasy—but then, very few people _don’t_ make him feel that way.  
  
“Very well,” Estinien says, sighing. He’s about to slip away from the warmth of Aymeric and his bed, but before he can, Aymeric touches his upper arm—not grasping, like he might have usually, so he must still feel bad about grabbing him earlier, though Estinien had not minded. No, he had not minded at all.  
  
“I have offered before, but I thought I would say it again. You need not stay at the Forgotten Knight while you await your next leave or post—you know you are always welcome at House de Borel,” Aymeric says.  
  
He has made this offer several times over the years. Estinien had thought nothing of it, had brushed it off each time out of fear of what his own heart would do to him if he were to sleep in the same house as Aymeric. In tents and barracks back when they still occasionally shared a squadron was different—Estinien could pretend Aymeric wasn’t even there, given the presence of others.  
  
But now...he hesitates, the rejection that usually sits on his tongue absent.  
  
“Perhaps,” he says, shifting his gaze. It’s as good as a yes—he would, in fact, much prefer one of the de Borel guest rooms to thin, drafty walls of the Forgotten Knight, where he will undoubtedly be treated to another night of little sleep courtesy of the other guests and their... _activities_.  
  
“Mayhap I will see you when I return, then,” Aymeric says knowingly, pulling his hand away and easing himself back into the bed with a grimace.  
  
Estinien fussily fixes the blankets that had been displaced when Aymeric sat up, tugging them back up as Aymeric smiles with bemusement.  
  
He hovers for a moment after, wondering—should he say something else? Should he just leave?  
  
Aymeric makes the choice for him, touching his shoulder and looking at him as if to say, _lean in_. So Estinien does, and Aymeric kisses him not on the mouth but the cheek.  
  
“Do try not to fall if you leave out the window, my dear. It would be most unfortunate if we had to share an infirmary once more under such circumstances.”  
  
Estinien snarls at him, unable to hold back the way he’s smiling regardless, and Aymeric huffs a laugh at his expression and pats his shoulder once before dropping his hand onto the bedding.  
  
“Get going, fool, and actually sleep for once. I hope to see you on the morrow,” Aymeric says quietly, and Estinien exhales slowly.  
  
“You will,” he murmurs, and hesitates only briefly before he slides off the edge of the bed. His hand catches Aymeric’s, squeezing his fingers gently before he steps back, and the expression on Aymeric’s face—such open, hopeful longing—makes him want to stay.  
  
But he can’t, so he takes his leave—out the window once more, and Aymeric trembles with held-back laughter in the dark as Estinien gets another facefull of snow when he closes the window behind him. Estinien just barely makes out his silhouette; he watches just for a moment longer before he begins to lower himself.  
  
He grimaces at the cold, glad for the lack of people in the streets at this time of night. He misses his armor already—he had forced himself to leave it behind so that nobody would recognize him, and now he must return to the barracks to retrieve it, head to the Forgotten Knight to pay off his tab, and then…  
  
Well. At least Aymeric’s steward knows sign too, now. Estinien has used up all of his words for now—the thought of speaking again makes him feel sick.  
  
But there’s a comfortable bed and a hot meal waiting for him and he hopes he’ll be able to show his gratitude well enough without Aymeric present.  
  
His mouth still feels warm. He can taste Aymeric still, can feel the warmth of his fingers on his cheek, and the effort it takes to hold back his flush is monumental.  
  
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow.


End file.
